


But darling, you’re a work of art

by Paintmeapicture



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: (kinda), (seriously gonna try and write something without bedsharing after this), F/M, Fluff, Frank is a hockey player AU, Friends to Lovers, Karen is an artist AU, Ok here goes...., Slow Burn, Smut, also my very first smut fic!, bed sharing, coffee shop AU, everyone knows but them, friends to idiots to lovers, like... so sweet and fluffy it is basically cotton candy, readers consume at their own risk and any toothaches are not the author’s responsibility, seriously they are so dumb, yoU KNEW IT WAS COMING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:32:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paintmeapicture/pseuds/Paintmeapicture
Summary: Frank is a hockey player. Karen is a portrait artist. They become friends — but are either of them brave enough to try for more?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first true AU, in that I kept almost nothing from the source material except characters. Some of them have the same jobs but other than that — completely new world!
> 
> I kind of started this on a whim. “5k,” I said. “It’ll be cute and easy,” I said. 15k later.......
> 
> Also finally overcame my conservative middle class upbringing to write my first smut! I hope I did it justice.

The bell over the door tinkles and Karen looks up to see the most fascinating face she's ever laid eyes on enter the coffee shop.

She comes here to sketch, sometimes doing quick studies of other patrons, sometimes sitting outside and sketching the busy city foot traffic or occasionally the park across the street. Usually people though — Karen Page loves faces. She specializes in portraits, done in charcoal, oils, or photography.

And boy, does this guy have a _face_. It's all angles and scowl and many-times-broken nose and big brown eyes. He has a dark bruise covering one cheekbone, and a split lip, and Karen actually gasps aloud when she sees him. It's a tiny sound, the barest inhalation, and there's no way he can hear it all the way on the other side of the busy cafe from her, but his eyes snap to hers all the same and she stops breathing at the force of his gaze.

She forces a polite smile and looks away, down at her open sketchbook, and is embarrassed to find that she's already started sketching him, the lines of his profile flowing easily out of her pencil.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “Get it together, Page.” She glances at the time and, shit, she's late, she's supposed to meet Foggy and Marci for lunch in ten minutes, at a restaurant that's at least a fifteen minute walk away. She snaps her sketchbook shut, scoops her pencils and other supplies into their case, shoves everything haphazardly into her tote.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she mutters under her breath, shoving her unruly hair out of her face and hurrying for the door, calling a perfunctory “see you tomorrow, Jess,” at the cranky barista on her way out. She tries not to stare at him as she walks behind him, but with his back turned she notices other details about him: shirt-strainingly-broad shoulders, not particularly tall, slightly wild dark hair that curls over his collar.

Her fingers itch for her camera and she tamps down the urge. For one thing, he seems the type to take issue with being photographed by a random stranger. For another, she is _late_ , dammit. With one last glance she's out the door and hurrying down the sidewalk.

 

Frank had noticed her almost immediately. Long blonde hair, legs for days stretched out in front of her, big blue eyes in an oval face. The way she stared, he'd thought at first that she'd recognized him, and he'd braced himself to be polite, hoping she'd at least let him get some caffeine in him before she approached.

But no, she'd smiled awkwardly and then booked it out of there, and he found himself strangely disappointed — ridiculous, considering he'd just been literally bracing himself for social contact.

He didn't miss when she addressed Jessica by name. A regular, then, which meant he might run into her again. He's been coming here for weeks, ever since the Guardians’ season started and he was back in the city after a long summer of training and downtime. He'd already racked up a couple goals and the bruise on his face was testament to his first fight of the season, late in the second period of last night's game.

“Hey, Jess, the usual, please,” he says.

“You look like shit,” she says, blunt and antagonistic as ever, and he grins at her.

“You should see the other guy,” he says, and is rewarded with an eye roll. He drops a couple bills on the counter, mumbles “keep the change,” and accepts the large black coffee Jessica hands him.

“So, who was that?” He asks, the words out before he realizes he's going to say them. Jessica's eyebrows shoot up.

“Who, Blondie?” She says. “That's Karen. She's in here all the time.”

He hums in noncommittal acknowledgment, finger tapping against the rim of his coffee cup. He doesn't even know why he asked (he knows exactly why he asked).

“See you tomorrow,” he says, and Jessica waves him off.

 

Three days later, she runs into him.

Literally.

Karen is rushing, as usual. For once she doesn’t even have anywhere to actually be — rushing is just her default state — and she smacks right into him as she comes barreling around a corner, looking at her phone rather than where she’s going.

It happens fast. She smacks into a solid mass of humanity, her phone going flying as she bounces back, and it’s like she’s watching it in slow motion. He catches her with an arm around her waist before she can do more than stumble, his other hand snatching her phone out of midair at the same time.

“Holy shit,” she says. “ _Killer_ reflexes.” And then she looks up into big brown eyes and freezes.

“You alright, ma'am?”

She blinks at him.

“Ma'am?”

“Yes…” she breathes, then mentally smacks herself. “Yes, I’m fine, I’m so sorry. I really should learn to watch where I’m going, it’s a bad habit, or maybe just not run blindly around corners, that might help.” She’s babbling like an idiot but he still has his arm around her waist, and he’s so close and he smells good, like coffee and something fresh and cold that she can’t quite place.

“No harm done,” he says, handing her phone back and easing his arm from around her waist. She steps back a little, so the distance between them is less “lovers engaging in PDA on a busy sidewalk” and more “two strangers engaging in polite conversation.”

Up close, she can see that his eyes aren’t quite as dark as they looked from across the dim cafe, and he has a couple of days worth of stubble shadowing his jaw, and the bruise under his left eye has faded from black and blue to a somewhat alarmingly-bright shade of purple. She can't stop staring at the way the sunlight gilds the angles of his face, and her hand is wrapped around her camera inside her bag before she realizes what she's doing. She drops it guiltily. He keeps flicking glances at her, eyes touching on her own, her hair, her lips, and then flicking away to scan their surroundings.

Fuck, she’s staring. “Um, I’m Karen,” she offers, mostly as something to say. His gaze snaps to hers. “Karen Page.” She holds out her hand between them.

“Frank Castle,” he says, wrapping his huge hand around hers. He has a nice handshake, firm but not too tight. She notices that his knuckles are bruised, too.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. “Sorry for tackling you.”

He _almost_ smiles, the expression clear in his eyes even though it never really touches his mouth.

“I'll uh, let you go,” she says when he doesn't respond. “Have a nice day.”

“Ms. Page,” he nods at her.

“Karen,” she corrects.

“Karen.”

And then he's gone, and Karen stands still for a moment, replaying the way he said her name, like it was a gift he'd been given.

 

It takes three weeks for him to bump into her again.

The team was on a four-game away series that lasted ten days, so he was out of the city for a while. Then he moved apartments. He hadn't really wanted to; there was nothing wrong with his old apartment, but Curt and Bill both said it was a shithole, and when the two of them started agreeing on things he knew he was in trouble. The new place is bigger, and nicer, and closer to his favorite coffee shop. Which he definitely hasn't been going to more often in the hopes of running into a certain tall blonde again.

He's rewarded one afternoon when he walks into the place about an hour before he has to be at the arena and she's there, sitting at the same table in the back and scribbling furiously in a notebook. She doesn't look up, so he watches her for a moment. She keeps glancing sideways at an old woman two tables over and then back down at her notebook, and it takes him a moment to realize she's not writing — she's sketching.

Jessica finishes with the customer ahead of him, so he drags his gaze off of Karen Page and orders his usual black coffee.

“You dumbasses better win tonight,” Jessica says, the challenge clear in her voice. “I've got tickets.”

“That right? We'll do our best then, just for you.”

“You have another game like you did against the Tornadoes last week and that ‘W’ will be yours.”

“Nah, I got lucky that game,” he deflects, as usual. “I'll see if I can't net you a goal though.” He'd had a hat trick against the Tornadoes, only the third of his career, and on home ice, too. It had been a good night, everything seeming to align perfectly. Some games were like that; others, it seemed like you couldn't buy a goal even if you offered your firstborn as collateral.

While Jess pours his coffee, he tries to decide if it's okay to approach someone you met once three weeks ago when she literally ran you down on the sidewalk. People do that, right? Talk to acquaintances. That’s a thing.

God, he's a mess. How do people make friends? If he didn’t have his team, he’d be a fucking hermit.

He's nearly convinced himself that Karen would never in a million years want to talk to him when she proves him wrong by calling his name just as Jessica is handing him his coffee.

“Frank!”

He meets Jessica's eyes long enough to take in her smirk before turning to see Karen waving him over.

“Hey,” she says when he arrives at her table. She kicks a chair out in invitation. “Want to join me?”

He answers by taking the proffered chair. “Ma'am,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Karen,” she says firmly.

“Sorry, old habits,” he says, and nods at her sketchbook. “Can I see?”

She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “That depends,” she says.

“On what?” He says, bemused by this entire experience.

“On if you'll let me sketch you.”

“Uh, you want to?”

“If you don't mind,” she nods, then confesses: “I, um… I've already done a couple. From memory. But it's always better to have the subject in front of you.”

This is by far the weirdest conversation Frank has ever had. And he talks to David Lieberman on a regular basis, so his weird threshold is higher than some.

“Huh,” he says, considering. “Can I look first?”

“Sure,” she says. He examines her a moment longer, fascinated when a blush creeps across her cheeks.

“Okay.”

The grin she gives him is _blinding_.

“Okay,” she echoes, snapping her sketchbook closed and handing it to him. He takes it and flips to the first page. Three sketches, different angles of the same person, stare up at him, a man wearing round, tinted glasses and a slight frown. The next page shows a couple, a no-nonsense businesswoman and a man with shaggy hair; the two seem to be arguing over some papers.

“So, Frank Castle,” Karen says, and he glances up. “Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh, the usual,” she says breezily. “What you do for a living, if you prefer pie or cake, if you like to read.”

Frank looks back down at her sketchbook, turns to the next page. “I love to read,” he says. “Pie is clearly the superior dessert. And I play hockey professionally.”

“I suppose that explains the bruises,” she says, and he remembers that he has a new set of bruises coloring his knuckles, and one curving around the left side of his mouth.

“Yeah, fight two nights ago,” he smiles. “This is nothing, last year I had a fight where the guy broke my nose, I had the raccoon eyes and everything.”

This page of the sketchbook has a handful of small sketches, all on the looser side, depicting different people. If he had to guess, he'd say they were done here in the coffee shop, quick studies of other patrons. He realizes that so far, all the sketches have been of people's faces, most not showing anything more than shoulders-up. He looks up to find Karen looking over his shoulder, an expression of intense concentration on her face and a pencil in her hand.

“Um, can I have that back for a minute?” She says without looking at him. He wordlessly flips to a blank page and hands over the book. Karen takes it and moves to flip to the back of the book, looks down to find that it's already open to a blank page, and glances at him in surprise before quickly beginning to draw. He watches as a young woman takes shape on the page, head thrown back, headphones on, laughing. He looks over his shoulder and finds the woman near the middle of the cafe, sitting next to another young woman who appears to be her girlfriend, if their posture and clasped hands are any indication.

He turns around to see Karen pencilling in the girlfriend now, head bobbing as her focus switches between the couple and the paper. He watches her pencil dragging across the page for another moment, but then he looks at her. There's a tiny frown creasing her brow, and she's biting her lower lip. Her hair falls in her face a couple times, and she brushes it back impatiently.

After a few minutes, her movements slow, and she makes a few thoughtful adjustments before setting her pencil down. Her frown turns critical, and she studies her work for a moment before handing the sketchbook back to him.

“I like you,” she says, and his eyebrows shoot up. She laughs. “You're quiet,” she explains. “A lot of people ask me tons of questions while I'm working and it messes with my concentration.”

He nods, turns his attention to the sketch. He likes it because now he can really see how talented she is, having seen the live subjects for comparison. Even for a quick sketch, the drawing is impressive, perfectly capturing the joy and intensity of the two women, clearly evoking their relationship.

He turns back to the earlier pages, finding his spot and resuming his perusal of her work. There are pages with old people and pages with young people. One page has the same face in thumbnail sizes more than twenty times — “she had the most expressive face,” Karen explains — and another shows a group of teenagers walking down the sidewalk. That one is unusual because it shows not only their bodies but the surrounding street.

Towards the middle of the book he finds a loose, hurried sketch on the corner of one page that nevertheless is clearly him. Judging by the bruise she captured, it's from the first time he saw her. He's surprised she managed to draw anything in the short time between when he walked in and when she ran out. A few pages later he finds another page with him on it; this one has three sketches of his face, scowling, smirking, staring into the distance, the bruise slightly less pronounced and the beginnings of a beard shadowing his jaw. If these are anything to judge by, she has a good memory — they look pretty accurate.

When he gets to the first blank page, he closes the book gently and leans back in his chair. He can feel Karen watching him. When he meets her eyes, he finds her studying him intently, gaze running over his face as if cataloging every detail.

“What makes you want to draw my ugly mug, anyway?”

Karen blinks, completely taken aback. “You have an interesting face,” she says, like it should be obvious. “I like interesting faces.” She seems about to say more, but clamps her mouth shut instead. He shrugs.

“Okay,” he says again. “How long do you think it'll take?” He's eyeing the clock — he's been sitting here longer than he realized, and he has to leave for the game in ten minutes.

“I guess that depends on how much time you're willing to give me,” she muses. “I can do a quick sketch like the one you just saw me do, and that'll take ten or twenty minutes. Or I can do it properly, which could take up to an hour. Or more, I don't know, it's kind of an organic process.”

“I have a game tonight, so I have to leave soon, but I can meet you here later this week? That way you don't have to rush.”

“Can I do a quick one now, too?” He nods. “Then you have yourself a deal, Frank Castle.” She's already dragging her sketchbook over and flipping to a blank page. He looks down at the table and smiles.

 

“I have to go,” Karen tells Foggy, starting to gather up her many belongings from the conference room at Nelson and Murdock. She'd brought takeout for lunch — enough for all three of them, though she'd hoped Matt would be out, and had been lucky that he was at a deposition. She felt a little bit pathetic for still wanting to avoid him, but although she'd definitely moved on in the six months since their relationship had spectacularly imploded, it still felt awkward to be around him. Which probably had to do with the _way_ their relationship had come to an end.

“Aww, so soon?” Foggy says, pulling an exaggerated sad face.

“I'm meeting someone for coffee and I don't want to be late.”

Foggy's eyebrows shoot up — Karen is _always_ late. It's kind of her thing.

“Must be someone _special_ ,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, and Karen curses her fair skin for showing her blushes so clearly.

“He's just a… friend, I guess. I've only met him a couple times.”

“Anyone I would know?”

“Um, maybe? He plays hockey, but I don't know if he’s any good.”

“You're dating a hockey player?” Foggy says, clearly taken aback.

“I'm _drawing_ a hockey player,” Karen insists.

“Which one?”

“Frank Castle?”

“Oh my god! You know the _Punisher_?”

“Uh,” Karen says. “The what-now?”

“That's what they call him! He's _brutal_ on the ice, not just the fights he gets into but his whole style of play, hits, puck handling, passing game, you name it this guy is _the man_. He’s been the Guardians’ MVP three years running. I can't believe you know him and you didn't tell me!”

“Come on, Foggy, you know I don't know anything about hockey,” Karen says, rolling her eyes. “Or any sports for that matter. I didn't even recognize his name! I wouldn't even _know_ he’s a hockey player if he hadn't told me.”

“Karen, would it kill you to read the sports section once in a while? Frank Castle is a local legend! And you've never even heard of him! What is wrong with you?”

She will never understand men.

“Okay, well, I apologize for my lack of sports knowledge, but I really do have to go. He's letting me sketch him and I get the feeling it's a little out of his comfort zone so I don't want to be late and give him the chance to chicken out.”

“The Punisher does _not_ chicken out, Karen,” Foggy says seriously.

“ _Bye_ ,” she says, firm but affectionate.

 

She's five minutes late.

She tumbles into the coffee shop, slightly wind blown — it's brewing up a storm outside, and she hopes it either waits until she gets home or blows over quickly while she's drawing Frank, because of course she forgot her umbrella today.

He's already sitting at their table, though this time he's in her usual seat against the wall and she'll have to sit with her back to the door. The light will be better on his face this way, so she doesn't mind; she also normally faces the door so she can see more people, but she’s focusing on Frank today, so it’s a moot point. She can see one of his fingers tapping on his thigh as she walks up.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, hooking the strap of her bag over the back of her chair and starting to dig around in it, extracting her sketchbook, her pencil case, and her wallet. He shakes his head in a gesture she takes to mean “don't worry about it” — Frank Castle is not a talkative one. “I’m gonna go grab a drink, be right back.” She heads for the counter, where Jessica is already pouring her usual medium black coffee.

“Your new boyfriend already got it,” Jessica says when Karen tries to pay.

“He's not my boyfriend,” Karen says, blushing. “I barely know him.”

“You two seemed pretty cozy the other day,” Jessica says, eyebrows raised in a challenge that Karen refuses to rise to.

“Whatever, Jess.” She heads back to Frank. “Thanks for the coffee,” she tells him as she sits down across from him.

“You're welcome.”

She gets settled, laying out her pencils and kneading her eraser to soften it up, sipping her coffee and studying Frank intermittently. He lets her stare, doesn't fidget or turn away.

They’re quiet for several minutes as she starts drawing, Frank scanning the cafe behind her and looking at her face when he thinks she won’t notice.

“You know,” she begins slowly. “When I said I liked you for being quiet, I didn’t mean you should never talk.”

He looks at her properly, right in the eye, and she freezes with her pencil hovering over the page for a long moment.

“Alright,” he says. He thinks for a moment, looking away over her shoulder. “Okay. Same questions you asked me, last time.”

She smirks at him. “I love to read. Pie is clearly the superior dessert,” she says, echoing his responses word for word. The glint in his eye tells her he appreciates the joke, his face doing that I’m-not-smiling-but-I-am thing that she’d noticed when she ran into him on the street. “And I’m a portrait artist, professionally speaking. I do event photography on the side, but drawing and painting are my passion.”

He nods, absorbing that. Watching him think is fascinating — every thought has a corresponding micro expression, and she’s having a hard time looking away long enough to actually draw him. _Focus, Karen_.

“So apparently you’re pretty good,” she says, apropos of absolutely nothing. He seems to follow, though.

“I do alright,” he shrugs. “I love what I do.”

“Foggy about had a coronary when I told him who I was meeting today,” she says, smiling at the memory of Foggy’s face. “He was horrified I’d never heard of you before.”

“Eh,” Frank says, doing a complicated shrug-headshake-scowl thing to indicate that there’s no reason she should have heard of him.

“He said you’re a legend. You have a fancy nickname and everything,” she continues.

Frank scoffs at that. “Yeah, I’ve got the team’s radio announcer to thank for that,” he says acerbically. “I guess it stuck. Bill thinks it’s the funniest thing ever.”

She smiles, and they’re quiet for a few minutes.

“What kind of name is ‘Foggy’ anyway?” Frank breaks the silence, confusion clear on his face.

“It’s a nickname,” Karen laughs.

“For _what_?”

“You know, I’ve never asked. It’s just his name.” She shrugs. “It could be worse, his fiancée calls him _Foggy Bear_.” The face Frank pulls at that is priceless. She flips quickly to a blank page and sketches a small thumbnail of the expression before flipping back and continuing the larger sketch.

This goes on for a while. Frank is comfortable to be with — he's easy to talk to but doesn't feel the need to fill every silence. When she finally finishes the main drawing, they've been sitting there for two hours and she has a dozen little Frank Castle expressions on the next page. Karen gives the portrait a long look, checking it for flaws, but ultimately decides it's a good one.

She drew Frank straight on, gazing out at the viewer, in what she's mentally deemed his neutral expression: slight scowl creasing his brow, head tilted back slightly, chin out. She thinks she's captured his intensity pretty well, though she'd really like to do a full color painting to give the full effect. She presents the completed sketch to Frank with a flourish, standing up and arching her back to loosen her muscles. He watches her stretch before turning to look at the portrait.

She watches his face carefully but she can't really tell what he thinks of it. After a long moment, he looks up at her.

“It's good,” he says simply.

“Yeah?” She smiles, and he nods.

“Yeah.”

“Well, thanks for being so patient. I know it's a long, boring process.”

“I wasn't bored,” he says. She can feel herself blushing.


	2. Chapter 2

After that, Frank manages to run into Karen a few times a week for the next couple months. It becomes something of a routine for them to have coffee together before his home games, Karen drawing other patrons and adding to her collection of Frank expressions. It becomes a kind of game, her watching like a hawk for new faces that he doesn't even realize he's making, while he watches her for the telltale excitement when she finds a new one. He finds that her fingers are the best indicators — they twitch a certain way and reach for the nearest pencil.

He's never had a friend quite like her before. She's funny and passionate and loves to argue about anything and everything. He's never been particularly talkative, but she always manages to draw him out.

“Hey,” she says one day in early December. “What are you doing tonight?”

“You tell me,” he says, smirking at the delighted expression that elicits. He's sitting next to her — she kept complaining that his shoulders were blocking her view of the cafe, so he almost always sits next to her now, their knees pressed together under the table. He gets a better view both of her sketches and the people she chooses as subjects.

“Well, a bunch of us are going to Josie's, if you want to come with?”

He finds himself nodding. “Yeah, okay.” He knows Josie's is her favorite watering hole, though he's never been himself.

She grins. “Meet there around nine?”

“Text me the address.”

 

He manages to time his arrival perfectly so that they both walk up to the door at the same time, though from different directions. Karen is almost invariably thirteen minutes late to everything, he's noticed, so it's not hard to get there at the same time as her.

“Hey! Foggy said they got a table already, come on.”

He follows her inside. The outside of the place is pretty nondescript, but the inside could politely be termed a dive. It's surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday night. A group of people at the back notice their arrival and cheer, waving them over.

“Hey, guys, this is Frank,” Karen says once they're standing by the table, a booth that's been expanded by shoving another table against it. There's a collective shuffle as everyone shifts to make room. He ends up next to Karen on one bench, close enough that their shoulders brush every time one of them moves. “That's Foggy,” Karen gestures around the table as she makes introductions. “And his fiancée, Marci. Jessica you know, and I think you know Trish, too? And that's Matt and Elektra, and Luke, and this is Claire.”

He doesn't miss the change in tone when she introduces Matt and Elektra, though she masks it well. He recognizes everyone except Elektra from Karen's sketchbook, which tells him more than Karen probably realizes. He knows she dated Matt briefly, and that it ended badly, and now he has a pretty good idea what happened.

Someone pours them both beers from the pitcher in the center of the table, and then the inquisition begins. What does he do, how did he and Karen meet, where is he from, is he single, and on and on. He keeps expecting the next question to be _and what are your intentions toward Karen?_ when he's finally granted a reprieve in the form of Jessica and Trish challenging Foggy and Luke to a game of pool.

In the general commotion of everyone getting up and shuffling around, Karen leans over and murmurs in his ear.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “They can be a little… overbearing. But they mean well.”

“They care about you,” he says. “No need to apologize for that.”

She smiles, and he has to take a sip of his beer to keep from staring, one finger tapping the glass.

Despite the intense start, he actually has a good time. Karen's friends are an eclectic bunch, but they're nice and clearly all adore her, and they accept him into their ranks readily enough.

Foggy talks his ear off about the Guardians for about twenty minutes before launching into a discussion of what sounds like every goal Frank has ever made. The conversation might have gone on all night if Marci hadn't dragged Foggy off, telling him Frank probably didn't want to spend the entire evening talking about work and was just too polite to say so. Frank waves off the man's apology, promising they can talk about it some more the next time they see each other.

There's only one really awkward moment, where Murdock manages to corner Frank at the bar (how a blind man manages to track him down in a crowded room is beyond him) and threatens him with both legal repercussions and physical violence if he ever hurts Karen. Frank stares at the man, nonplussed and unable to figure out where this is coming from, and more than a little confused as to whether he's actually supposed to feel intimidated by the smaller man. Frank has an inch of height and at least twenty pounds of muscle on the guy, and he literally gets into fights for a living.

“We're just friends,” Frank says, after trying and failing to extricate himself. “But I'd never hurt her.”

He's not sure why the lawyer is being so aggressive — he has a girlfriend whom he appears to have chosen over Karen, and Frank and Karen aren't dating anyway. Not that Frank would be opposed, but at this point Karen's friendship is too important to him to risk jeopardizing it.

“See that you don't,” Murdock says, and disappears into the crowd. Frank stares after him for a long moment before collecting his pitcher of beer and returning to the group.

 

Karen is a bit drunk.

Okay, she may have passed “a bit” more than an hour ago and is rounding the corner on “no longer having fun.” She’s tired, leaning on Frank, and all the stories her friends are telling that were so funny half an hour ago are just exhausting now.

She tugs on Frank’s shirt, and he glances down at her.

“Can you take me home?” She murmurs, quiet enough that only he can hear.

“Sure,” he says, quick enough that she’s pretty sure he’s been trying to figure out how to extricate himself for the night and just hasn’t managed it yet. “You okay?”

“Just tired. I don’t normally drink this much.”

They say their goodbyes, and Karen tries not to snap at Matt when he protests Frank as her escort home.

“Are you sure? I mean, come on, Elektra and I can take you home,” he says, frowning in Frank's general direction. She looks over in time to see Frank rolling his eyes and wishes she had her sketchbook.

“No, no, that’s okay, you two stay and enjoy your night,” she says, as graciously as she can manage. It’s a struggle — if she never spends time alone with Matt and Elektra, it will probably be too soon. “We’re both going in the same direction, anyway.” She doesn’t actually know where Frank lives, it could be in New Jersey for all she knows, but he _could_ live close to her. Either way, he doesn’t correct her.

Out on the sidewalk, Karen’s shoulders slump in relief at the quiet chill of the night. The weather hasn't quite changed over to full winter yet, so while it's cold, it isn't frigid.

“I’m this way,” she gestures vaguely in the direction of her apartment, and Frank falls into step beside her. He’s not much taller than her, so their strides match up easily.

“He really doesn’t like me, huh?” He says.

“Who? Matt?”

“Yeah. Murdock.”

She sighs. “He’s been super weird ever since…” she trails off. Frowns. “It’s annoying, really. He can’t have it both ways. Which hasn’t really stopped him from trying.”

“He cheated on you,” Frank says, and it’s not really a question.

“I— How’d you know that?”

“I wasn’t sure until your reaction, just now. But… well, you said it had ended badly, and he has a girlfriend who’s in your friend group but not your sketchbook, and he’s trying way too hard…” He shrugs. “I can put two and two together and get four.”

She snorts. “Yeah, uh. We’d been dating, nothing super serious but I guess I thought that it _could_ be serious. And then he started missing stuff, and after the second time he stood me up I went to his apartment to see what the fuck was up and… he wasn’t alone.”

“Asshole,” Frank says, and she smiles at how pissed he sounds on her behalf.

“Anyway, he tried to apologize and told me all this bullshit about how she was his ex and he hadn’t meant to get involved with her again but it ‘just happened’ and I may have snapped and punched him in the nose and then left.”

A surprised snort of laughter escapes Frank, and she can’t help but grin back at him. “Atta girl,” he says, when he’s gotten control of himself again.

“Anyway,” she continues a few moments later. “That was six months ago, and I’m over it but it’s still awkward, you know? And he pulls the overprotective friend shit and it’s obnoxious. If I was that important to him he would've been honest with me about what was going on with him.”

“You could always punch him again. I'll back you up,” Frank says, and she snorts.

“Hah. Don’t tempt me.”

There's a pause, and then Karen says, “Okay, your turn.”

Frank gives her another look that makes her wish for her sketchbook. “My turn for what?”

“How'd your last relationship end?”

He blows out a sigh. “Getting into ancient history now, huh? Okay… About three years ago, Maria and I, we met in the park. It was some romance movie shit, she was walking her dog, we got tangled up, you know the drill.”

“What kind of dog?” Karen only asks important questions.

“Pit. Sweet as can be, her name was Cornbread.” Karen laughs. “Anyway, we’d been together three months, things were starting to get serious, and then… Maria got pregnant.”

Karen looks over at him, surprised, but he's frowning at the sidewalk.

“It ended up being a false positive, but before we figured it out, I asked her to marry me, cause I'm old fashioned, I guess. She said yes, and we were making it work, and then when we figured out she wasn't… well, we never really recovered. Engagement only lasted a couple months after that.”

“Jesus,” Karen says after a beat of silence. “That must have been awful. I'm sorry I brought it up.”

“Nah, don't be. Like I said, it's ancient history.”

On impulse, Karen reaches over and wraps a hand around Frank's forearm, hooking him close. He's warm, and he presses her hand between his arm and his side, so she doesn't let go. They're quiet for about half a block.

“Do you have a game tomorrow?” She finally breaks the silence.

Frank grunts and she interprets it as a “no.” She's getting better at parsing his nonverbal communication.

“Travel day,” he says.

“Where are you headed to this time?”

He cuts her an amused look. “You know the schedule is online, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s weird to google your friends. I’d feel like a creep, checking your schedule. I mean, who _does_ that?”

“Dinah checks it all the time. Says she'd never know where Bill was, otherwise.”

“Who's Dinah?”

“Bill’s girlfriend.”

“Well, that's different.”

Frank raises an eyebrow at her.

“It just is,” she says.

“Alright.”

“Okay, but you still haven't told me where you're going.” She can see him trying not to grin at her, which she studiously ignores.

“Pittsburgh. Game the day after, against the Puffins. Then the day after that, we head up to Boston and play the Bears the following night. Then home. Gone four days.”

“Do you ever get tired of all the travel?”

He thinks about that for a moment, his breath forming faint clouds in front of him. He nods slowly. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not this early in the season. But in March and April? Yeah, it can start to wear at you.”

“But it's worth it?”

“I think so.”

Karen hums an acknowledgement. Looks up and realizes that they've reached her apartment building.

“Well, this is me,” she says, reluctantly letting go of Frank's arm to fish her keys out of her coat pocket. “Thanks for walking me home.”

Frank nods, eyes flicking over her face. “I'll see you when I get back?”

She smiles. “Yeah. Have a good trip.”

He nods again, gestures with his chin for her to head inside. He waits until the door clicks shut behind her before heading back the way they came.

 

“Who’re you texting, man?”

Frank looks up from his phone to see Curtis looking at him, a gleam in his eye spelling trouble.

“A friend,” he grunts, as neutrally as possible.

“It's _Karen_ , isn't it?”

Frank lets out a sigh, slumps down a little further in his seat on their charter bus. The drive from Boston back to New York has never seemed so long before. He grunts an affirmative, hopes that'll be the end of it.

It's not.

“ _I knew it_ ,” Curtis crows, and now Billy is leaning across the aisle to figure out what the commotion is about.

“Knew what, Curtis?”

“Frank is texting Karen.”

Frank does his best to ignore his friends. He loves them like brothers, he'd do anything for them, but goddamn if they aren't as obnoxious as teenage boys sometimes. He sends another text to Karen: _kill me now, please_.

Her response is quick: _???_

 _My friends are idiots_ , he shoots back.

He looks up to see Curt and Bill both staring at him. “Can I help you with something?”

They look from him to each other and back, both grinning like idiots. “Invite her to the thing tomorrow,” Curt says. “I want to meet her.”

“We're just friends,” Frank says.

“Uh huh.” Bill’s voice is thick with skepticism. “You know, you can bring a _friend_ to Curtis’s party.”

“Christ,” Frank mutters. “I'll ask her, okay? But she could already have plans.”

Curt and Bill settle down after that, apparently satisfied.

 _You busy tomorrow?_ He sends to Karen. There's a pause.

_I don't know, am I?_

_Curt is throwing a Christmas party. Want to come with?_

_I'd like that. What time?_

He nails down the details with her before turning to Curtis.

“Ya got lucky, Curt. She's in.”

“Oh, _I_ got lucky? Correction, my friend: _you_ got lucky,” Curt says, laughing when Frank rolls his eyes.

 

“Hey, I'm almost ready, just give me like five minutes,” Karen says as she opens the door for Frank the next day, barely glancing at him. She's rushing around, putting on earrings and digging in her closet for a coat, so she misses the beat of stunned silence as Frank takes her in.

She's wearing a navy blue sweater dress that hugs her curves and leaves a lot of leg exposed, and her hair is half up, half down, glowing golden in the soft light of her apartment.

She's gorgeous. Frank shakes his head, trying to rein in his feelings, because Karen is his friend, damn it, and you shouldn't ogle your friends, no matter how unbelievably beautiful they are.

“How was the trip?” Karen is asking, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil.

“Uh, yeah, it was good. Won both games, and I had a good night in Pittsburgh, got a goal and a good fight.”

Karen looks at him then, coming over to examine the shiner he's sporting. She reaches up, turning his face into the light so she can get a better look, her thumb brushing gently along the edge of the bruise.

“What am I going to do with you?” She says, shaking her head.

“Ahh, I'm okay,” he says, shrugging.

“I can't believe you _like_ letting people hit you in the face.”

Frank can't help the grin that spreads across his face. “It's fun.”

She rolls her eyes, then gives the rest of him a perusal. He's wearing dark jeans and a navy blazer over a black button down, no tie. His dark hair is still damp from a shower, the ends curling over his collar and around his ears.

“You clean up nice,” Karen says.

“Likewise,” he tells her. She blushes, disappearing into the bedroom for a moment and returning sporting a pair of black ankle boots.

“Okay, I'm finally ready,” she says, shrugging into her coat and grabbing her purse.

 

She's not really sure what she expected Frank to drive, but a bright red Mustang isn't it. He opens the door for her, ever the gentleman. The interior is all black leather, with a dash display that could rival a fighter jet’s. The radio is on low, playing a funk mix, which surprises her. She had Frank pegged as a classic rock kind of guy.

Curtis lives in Brooklyn, and by the time they make it across the river, they're late — even by Karen's standards. The party is in a local bar, several steps up from Josie's, but still comfortably non-trendy. The sign outside reads “Closed for Private Event,” and the party is in full swing.

Within moments of their arrival, two tall-dark-and-handsome men have materialized out of the crowd to give Frank shit.

“You're late,” one says, slapping Frank on the back. He looks like Satan, handsome as sin with a grin to match.

“Yeah we were starting to worry you'd wimped out on us,” the second says, equally handsome, but in a friendlier kind of way. His gaze falls on Karen. “Or maybe just found something better to do.”

Frank takes their ribbing with equanimity.

“Alright, you two can shut up now,” he finally says, putting a hand on Karen's back. “This is Karen Page. Karen, this is Curtis Hoyle and Billy Russo.”

She shakes their hands and pretends not to notice the eyebrow waggles Billy makes at Frank over her head.

“Karen, it's great to finally meet you. We've heard a lot about you,” Curtis says, and she likes him instantly. There's something about him that tells her he's one of those innately good people.

“Hopefully only good things,” she says, smiling and nudging Frank with her elbow.

“Well, they're definitely all _true_ things,” Frank says, and she laughs at the teasing edge in his voice.

“Don't worry, they're all good,” Curtis assures her.

“We were starting to think he'd made you up,” Billy interjects. “Didn't believe anyone could be that perfect.”

Frank blushes and rolls his eyes and Karen pretends not to notice that, either.

“Most of the team is here,” Curtis says, taking pity on Frank and changing the subject. “Plus some of the old crew; the Liebermans, Gunner. David’s been asking where you are.”

“I’ll find him,” Frank promises.

Karen meets so many people that she loses track of most of their names. The fact that Frank brought a woman with him seems to be a bit of a novelty to everyone — especially when they find out she’s not his girlfriend. She knows Frank is shy; apparently he’s even more shy than she realized.

The Liebermans — David and Sarah — turn out to have known Frank for years, a fact she finds out when a slightly awkward, gangly man with wild hair approaches her.

“You must be Karen!” He says enthusiastically before they’ve even been introduced. A short woman with long red hair rolls her eyes next to him.

“Frank is going to kill you,” she says, before turning to Karen. “I’m Sarah, and this is my idiot husband, David ‘No Chill’ Lieberman.” Karen laughs, charmed.

“He’s right, I am Karen,” she says.

“Frank talks about you all the time,” David announces, and is promptly elbowed by his wife.

Karen’s not really sure what to say to that, so she shrugs. “We’re friends.” Frank is currently at the bar getting her another drink, and she’s kind of glad he’s not here for this — she’s pretty sure he’d die of embarrassment.

“How’d you two meet?” Sarah asks.

“I, uh, literally ran into him on the street,” Karen confesses. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I went one way and my phone the other, and he caught us both. His reflexes are very impressive.”

She definitely didn’t mean to say all that — maybe she doesn’t need that new drink, after all — but David and Sarah both laugh.

“Sounds like Frank,” David says.

They make small talk for a few minutes — David is an app developer and Sarah, it turns out, owns an art gallery (when she finds out Karen is an artist, she insists Karen come by her gallery to share her portfolio), and they have two kids. They’ve known Frank since college and their affection for him is obvious.

When Frank finally returns with her drink, he greets Sarah with a kiss on the cheek, claps David on the back, and slides an arm casually around Karen's waist, an action that makes Sarah stare. A ridiculously pretty woman joins them a few minutes later, and is introduced as Dinah Madani. She’s followed closely by Billy, who flirts with her outrageously as though they just met (they’ve been together for three years).

Karen hits it off with Dinah and Sarah pretty quickly, and by the end of the night they’ve already made plans to meet up for lunch the following week.

“I like your friends,” she says in the car on the way back to her place. Frank smiles at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re fun.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, I need help,” Frank says when Karen answers his call a week later.

“What’s up?”

“I want to paint my bedroom, but I don’t know how to choose a color.”

“Come get me,” she says. “We can go look at paint chips.”

He calls her when he’s outside her building, and she slides into his passenger seat a couple minutes later.

“Hey,” she smiles at him. “Did you have a color in mind?”

“Uh,” he says, finger tapping on the steering wheel as he merges with traffic. “Not really? Maybe blue. I’m just sick of living in a stark white box.” That gets a laugh from Karen — she’s given him shit before about how austere his apartment is.

They spend half an hour in the store collecting paint chips. Most of them are blue, but Karen talks him into a few different beige and yellow options.

“Warm colors are good for bedrooms,” she says, as though this is knowledge that he should just… have.

They take all the chips back to his place and spend over an hour holding them up against the walls, comparing and contrasting different shades and narrowing it down to the top three. Karen finds a thumbtack and pins the chips to the wall.

“Now you stare at them every time you come into the room, see how they look in different light, see if you end up hating any of them after a couple days,” she says. “Then you go buy the paint. You’ll probably need a couple gallons for a room this size. I’ll help you paint when you’re ready.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“I know. But I’m going to.”

 

Foggy drags her to her first hockey game the weekend after New Year’s.

He insists that if she’s going to have a hockey player for a best friend she has to know _something_ about the game, and the best way to learn is by watching said best friend beat the shit out of the opposition on home ice.

She’s not sure exactly _when_ Frank became her best friend, but the label feels right, and everyone in their social circle seems to know it, too. When she mentions to Foggy that everyone seems to have noticed before she did, he gives her a funny look.

“Well, he’s like half your sketchbook,” he says, as though that’s an explanation, in and of itself. “And you two are always together, and even when you're not it’s impossible to talk to either one of you without hearing about the other. Of course we’ve noticed.” He pauses. “Matt's pissed about it.” He grins, and Karen rolls her eyes.

“He would be,” she says, exasperated.

Frank laughs when she tells him about Foggy’s plan to educate her. “You don’t have to learn anything about hockey on my account,” he says.

“I don’t appear to have much choice in the matter,” she tells him. “I think he’s just using you as an excuse to finally get me to learn something about sports.”

When Jessica finds out they’re going to a game, she immediately invites herself along. Which is how Karen finds herself in a chilly arena, drinking overpriced beer and listening as one of her friends heckles the opposing team and the refs in equal measure and the other tries earnestly to teach her the rules of the game.

With the exception of off-sides, she picks it up pretty quickly. She asks a lot of questions, which seems to send Foggy over the moon with joy. He doesn’t even mind when she makes him explain off-sides for a third time.

The Guardians are up 4-1 — two of those goals were Frank’s, the show off — and the third period is halfway over when number twenty three on the Thunder picks a fight with Frank.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she says when it’s over. Frank is a bloody mess, but he’s grinning victoriously on his way to the penalty box, and the refs are trying to find the other guy’s teeth and clear the blood off the ice.

“I know, awesome, huh?” Jessica says. “Your boy’s one of the best scrappers in the league.”

Karen makes a noncommittal “uh huh” sound and tries to shove her heart back down into her chest where it belongs. She doesn’t think she’s going to be able to get used to the sight of Frank covered in blood anytime soon.

The rest of the game passes in a blur, and the Guardians emerge victorious. Foggy tells her excitedly that Frank got the game-winning goal, and is only slightly exasperated when she asks if that's a big deal.

She sees Frank for breakfast at their favorite diner the next morning. Now that he’s not covered in blood, she can see that his bruises aren’t that bad — he’s definitely had worse since she’s known him. There's a cut over his left eyebrow, which must be where all the blood came from, but other than that he only has some slight bruising around the same eye. He grins at her, looking immensely self-satisfied, and hands her a hockey puck. It has a strip of white tape wrapped around it, and someone wrote “Guardians v. Thunder, W, 4-1” on the tape in black Sharpie.

“Um… thanks?” She says, and he chuckles at her confusion.

“It’s the game puck,” he explains. “Coach named me last night’s MVP.”

“Oh! Hey, that’s awesome,” she says, suddenly much more impressed with the chunk of rubber in her hand. “Congratulations.”

“It’s for you,” he says simply. She grins at him.

“Foggy is going to be _so jealous_.”

 

Between his travel schedule and the holidays (which he did _not_ spend pining after Karen, no matter what David and Curt say, damn it), they don’t actually get around to painting until mid January. He chooses a soft periwinkle blue for his walls and calls Karen to see when she’s available, and the next morning they’re putting on the first coat. It only takes a few hours, and they break for lunch to allow it to dry long enough for them to start the second coat.

“You’ve got paint on your face,” he tells Karen, and she shrugs.

“You’ve got paint on your butt,” she retorts. He twists around and sure enough, there’s a smear of blue on his shorts along the side of his left cheek. Karen laughs at the face he makes and adds it to her thumbnail collection.

It takes them twice as long to finish the second coat because they keep pausing to goof off. Karen is playing an extremely eclectic mix on his Bluetooth speaker, and when the Wobble comes on and she finds out Frank doesn’t know the moves, she insists they stop painting long enough for him to learn.

In spite of the simplicity of the dance, it takes three repetitions of the song because Frank can’t stop laughing long enough to remember the steps.

When they finally finish painting, it’s fully dark out and Frank’s stomach is rumbling.

“Pizza?”

Karen nods, collapsing onto his couch. When he’s done ordering, he nudges her legs and she moves them enough for him to sit down before promptly dropping them into his lap.

They eat pizza and watch a movie, and Frank relaxes into the easy comfort of being with Karen.

“I don’t want to walk home,” Karen groans dramatically when the movie ends.

“Then don’t,” Frank says. “Stay here.” He’s crashed at her place before, so he doesn’t see why she can’t do the same at his.

Mmh,” Karen grunts. “Okay.”

He insists she take the bed, and she refuses to take it from him, and after several rounds of back and forth arguing over who gets to sleep on the couch, Karen finally says “For fuck’s sake we can both sleep in the bed.”

Which shuts Frank right the hell up. He can’t think of a reason not to (well, not one that doesn’t make him sound like a juvenile idiot), so that’s exactly what happens. He gives her one of his Henley's to sleep in, and finds an extra toothbrush in his medicine cabinet, and before he knows it they’re lying side by side in his bed in the dark, his heart beating so hard he’s certain Karen will hear it and ask if he’s having a heart attack.

 _Get it together, Castle_ , he tells himself in the mental tone he usually reserves for when he’s having a bad game. He turns to say goodnight to Karen and — she’s already asleep.

It takes him much longer to follow suit.

 

“You've got it bad, don't you?”

Frank jumps guiltily, realizing he's been caught staring at Karen. “Don't know what you're talking about, Curt,” he says, trying to cover his embarrassment at being called out.

“Don't be like that,” Curtis says, rolling his eyes and cuffing Frank lightly on the shoulder. “You're allowed to fall in love with your gorgeous best friend, you know.”

“I— what’re you talking about?”

Curt just gives him a _look_ , and Frank gives up the pathetic attempt at deflecting.

“Fuck, yeah. I'm nuts about her, Curt,” he admits, gaze stealing over to Karen again. It’s the weekend after Valentine's Day, and a group of them are at Curtis’s favorite bar, which is still decorated with an obnoxious amount of pink and red hearts. Billy and Dinah are dancing alone on the small dance floor, and Karen and Foggy are playing darts while Marci and the Liebermans heckle them. Karen is mercilessly kicking Foggy's ass, laughing when he pleads with her to go easy on him.

She looks over and catches Frank staring. Tilts her head in a silent question: _you okay?_

He smiles: _yes_. Cocks an eyebrow: _you?_

She smiles back, eyes warm: _yes_. Nods at the bar, eyebrows raised: _want another drink?_

He holds up his mostly full glass of beer: _I'm good_. He cuts a look at the dart board, looks back at her questioningly: _you gonna win?_

She smirks: _piece of cake_.

“Do you realize how crazy that is to watch?” Curtis asks, startling Frank again. He'd forgotten Curt was there, he was so intent on Karen.

“What?”

“That nonverbal conversation thing you two do,” Curtis says. “I've never seen anything like it. I've known couples who've been together for decades who can't communicate that effectively.”

Frank chokes on his beer. “We're not a couple,” he protests weakly.

“And why is that? You just told me you're nuts about her. You gonna do anything about it?”

Frank takes a deep breath, blows it out heavily.

“I don't know, man. We're friends. I don't wanna ruin that, you know? Besides, I don't think she's interested.”

Curt’s always called him on his bullshit, and now is no different.

“Frank, stop with the chickenshit excuses and do something about your damn feelings for once.”

Frank gives a surprised snort of laughter. “Okay, man. Okay. Thanks for the advice.”

“You better follow it before someone comes along and steals her out from under you, man.”

 

“What I can’t figure out,” Dinah says over a pitcher of margaritas at girls’ night the first week of March (a tradition born of that first lunch Karen, Dinah, and Sarah had that has since expanded to include the rest of Karen’s friends as well), “is why you and Frank aren’t dating.”

Sarah and Trish both toast to that, and Jessica snorts and rolls her eyes.

Karen blows out a sigh. “We’re friends,” she says, her standard response. She doesn’t know why that’s so confusing to people, but she’s getting tired of trying to explain her relationship with Frank. He’s… special. Important. He’s her best friend. And if she spends a lot of time fantasizing about him, well, that’s her business. She’s not about to let her stupid crush ruin the best friendship she’s ever had.

She also very carefully doesn’t mention that ever since that first time she stayed at his place, they’ve been sleeping in each other's beds pretty regularly. At first it was just occasional, when one of them stayed too late at the other’s place and was too tired to walk home, but they’ve reached the point where the only nights they aren’t together are when Frank is on the road. They both have keys to each other's apartments, and clothes in each other's closets, and Karen’s art supplies now litter Frank’s place while he keeps a spare gym bag at hers for days when he stays over and has practice early the next morning.

She doesn’t know how to explain any of this to her friends. She doesn’t think they’d believe that all she and Frank do in bed together is sleep.

Well, sometimes there’s spooning, a torture Karen wouldn’t give up for anything.

Sarah lets out a theatrical groan, bringing Karen back to the present with a jolt. “Friends! The man is completely in love with you,” she says.

“He is not,” Karen protests. He definitely cares about her but, as far as she can tell, not like that. Unfortunately for her.

Sarah continues as though Karen hasn’t spoken. “And don’t think we haven’t all noticed you getting all moony-eyed whenever he’s around!”

“I can’t even be around you two half the time,” Jessica puts in. “You’re completely disgusting.”

“Oh, stop,” Trish chides. “Just because they spend all their time staring at each other when they think the other isn’t looking doesn’t mean they’re disgusting. You just wouldn’t know romance if it smacked you in the face.”

“Fair,” Jessica says, raising her glass of whiskey in a toast — she refuses to lower herself to anything as pedestrian as margaritas.

“And it hasn't escaped us that you two always show up to everything _together_ ,” Dinah adds.

“Don't forget the eye-talking thing!” Trish says, and the others all nod wisely.

“The _what_?” Karen says.

“You know, that thing you two do where you have entire conversations with just your facial expressions,” Trish explains.

“Yeah, that's the couple-iest couple bullshit I've ever seen,” Jessica agrees.

“‘Couple-iest’ isn't a word, Jess. Can we talk about something else?” Karen says. Claire’s been quiet thus far, but she comes to her rescue now, bringing up the latest drama at the doctor’s office where she works (one of the doctors got one of the nurses pregnant, but not the one he’s married to) and Karen throws her a grateful glance.

She should have known it was coming when Claire snags her on the sidewalk after everyone else has scattered for the night.

“Okay, but really, what is going on with you and Frank?” She demands, and Karen sighs.

“We really are just friends,” she tells Claire. “And okay, maybe I have a little bit of a crush on him, but the man is _brutally_ hot so who could blame me. I’m not about to let it get in the way of our friendship.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re letting your friendship get in the way of something deeper?” Claire says, and Karen bites her lip, because of course she’s thought about it. But Frank hasn’t given any indication that he’d want that, and she’s not ready to take the risk.

“Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do with your life,” Claire says. “But… we can all see how much you two care about each other, and your sketchbook is like ninety-percent Frank at this point.” Karen blushes — does _everyone_ know her sketchbook is a window into her soul?

“So just, don’t let fear keep you from pursuing it, okay?” Claire continues. “If you don’t want to be with him, that’s one thing… but I think you do.”

“Thanks, Claire,” Karen says, hugging her friend. It’s good advice — she just wonders if she’s brave enough to take it.


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s an emergency, how fast can you get here?” Karen says over the phone, and Frank feels his heart kick into overdrive. He’s already up off his couch and looking around for shoes and his keys.

“Uh, maybe ten minutes?” He says. “What’s wrong?”

“Just get here, please,” she says, and hangs up.

He makes it in seven minutes, practically sprinting the whole way.

He bangs on her door and she opens it pretty quickly, which is a good thing because if she hadn’t answered in the next three seconds he would have been kicking her door in. He’s never actually kicked in a door before, but it can’t be that hard, right? Her eyes are wide and frightened but she appears to be relatively unharmed as far as he can tell at a glance. The first words out of her mouth have him blinking in complete bewilderment.

“Kill it!” She says, grabbing a fistful of his hoodie and dragging him into her apartment. She shoves him into her living room ahead of her like a human shield, reaching around him to point at something on her coffee table. He squints and… is that…

“Jesus fuck, Karen, it’s just a goddamned spider,” he says, the words coming out harsher than intended because she just scared the ever-loving shit out of him over a fucking _spider_.

“It’s _huge_ ,” she says, panic edging her voice, and okay, she’s not wrong. Legs and all, the thing is about the size of a quarter, big and brown and furry. Frank blows out a sigh, trying to get his own panic under control now that he knows Karen is completely fine and just being a drama queen.

Although… he revises that assessment after taking another look at her. She looks pretty fucking terrified.

“Go get me a glass, sweetheart,” he says, gently prying her fingers loose from his sweatshirt and nudging her towards her kitchen. He grabs a magazine off her side table and leafs through it until he finds one of those card stock inserts, ripping it out and discarding the magazine.

“Can you open the window?” He asks when she comes back with the glass. While she does that, he carefully lowers the glass over her intruder, sliding the card under the edge to trap the little monster. Chill March air floods the room. “Go back in the kitchen,” he says over his shoulder to Karen, smiling when she obeys with unusual alacrity. He dumps the spider out on her fire escape and quickly shuts the window. Karen gives an audible sigh of relief and slumps against the kitchen counter.

“Thanks,” she says faintly, and he grins at her. Now that his heart isn’t beating a million miles a minute, the whole situation is pretty funny.

“I fucking _ran here_ ,” he says, and is rewarded with a snort of laughter from Karen, who is looking decidedly sheepish.

“I may never be able to relax here again,” she says. “What if it had _friends_?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” he says. “Wolf spiders are pretty solitary.”

“Ugh.”

He looks at her for a moment. “You want to come to my place for a while?”

“Yes, please,” she nods vigorously. She’s ready to go in minutes, sliding her feet into a pair of boots, throwing on a coat, and grabbing her tote with her sketchbook in it. Out on the sidewalk, he slings his arm around her waist and pulls her close.

She ends up spending the night, which is pretty common at this point. He doesn’t think anything of it — honestly he’s pretty sure the only reason they aren’t together every night is because he’s out of town so much — until the next morning when David shows up unexpectedly.

Karen is not a morning person, but Frank is used to waking up early for practice, so he usually gets up before her and makes their coffee. Karen will stumble out of bed when she’s ready and join him for a cup — her first, his second or third, depending on the day.

He's barely taken a sip of his first cup when David shows up, all worked up about his and Sarah’s anniversary — it’s coming up and he doesn’t know what to get her, and in true David Lieberman fashion, he’s completely freaking out about it. Frank would just buy her flowers and take her to dinner, but David’s never met a molehill he didn’t want to make a mountain out of, so that suggestion is met with outright derision.

They’ve lapsed into silence while David tries to think of something magical to do for his wife (his word), and Frank is sipping his coffee while thinking that he needs about three more cups before he’ll actually be mentally prepared to deal with David’s drama, when Karen comes out of the bedroom. She’s wearing one of his flannel shirts, her long legs bare beneath it, and her hair is tousled from sleep. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing her like this, sleep-mussed and heart-stoppingly beautiful — but he really wants the opportunity to try.

“Hey, Frank, do you know where I put my—” she’s saying, but stops in her tracks when she sees David sitting at Frank’s kitchen table with him. “Oh. Um. Hi, David.”

David, for his part, looks like his eyes are about to pop out of his head.

“Oh my god!” He says. “I _knew_ it!”

“Fuck,” Frank says.

“You’re such a _liar_ ,” David accuses him. Karen disappears back into the bedroom.

Frank has no idea what to say, so he says “fuck” again, scrubbing a hand over his face. How’s he supposed to explain to David that what he thinks is going on is definitely not going on, no matter how much Frank wants it to be going on. He doesn’t even think David would believe him.

He’s still sorting out his explanation in his head when Karen reappears, still wearing his shirt, but now wearing pants and shoes and with her tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“Hey, I just remembered I have a… uh… yeah, so I’ll see you—” her eyes slide to David and she checks whatever she was about to say— “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He gives her one panicked look of betrayal, and she shrugs and gives him an equally panicked apologetic smile, and then she’s gone.

“What. The. Hell.” David says in the ensuing silence.

“It’s not what you think,” Frank manages eventually.

“Oh really? Cause what I _think_ is that you and Karen have been in a committed relationship for a while now and have been lying to all your friends about it for some incomprehensible reason,” David says.

“It’s… it’s not… that,” Frank says. “We’re… she’s… it’s platonic?”

“It doesn’t look very platonic.” David is obviously skeptical, looking around Frank’s apartment with a critical eye, and Frank knows what he sees: Karen’s stuff everywhere, two plates in the draining rack, an empty mug waiting for her by the coffee pot — signs of their cohabitation are everywhere, so Frank attempts an explanation.

“Look, we’re friends, right? She’s my closest friend, and I crashed at her place a couple times and then she stayed here but wouldn’t let me take the couch and now we sleep in each other's beds when I'm not on the road but that’s all, yeah?”

Now David just looks confused. “But… I don't get it. You're clearly enamored with each other so… why _aren't_ you in a secret relationship?”

“Fuck,” Frank says again. “I don’t know, man. I’m fucking head over heels, I’m going completely insane from it, but she’s my _best friend_. What if she— How do I—” he struggles for a moment, staring at his hands, jaw working. Finally manages, “I _can’t_ lose her.”

“Oh,” David says. “Jesus, Frank. You haven’t talked to her about any of this?” Frank shakes his head. “But you love her.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Frank says, swallowing hard.

“You gotta tell her, man.”

 

Karen texts Claire “911” with a bunch of exclamation points and red emergency light emojis on her way home. Claire responds “30 minutes.”

She takes a quick shower when she gets home and puts Frank's shirt back on over a pair of leggings. She makes a pot of coffee, mostly for something to do — she’s not sure caffeine is really a good idea with this much blind panic running through her veins. She plops down on the couch and sticks her head between her knees and focuses on just breathing for a while.

“Okay, what’s going on,” Claire asks when she arrives.

Karen paces around, explaining the scene from that morning, which then necessitates a much longer explanation of just what the hell is going on between her and Frank. She does the best she can, but she’s not sure how coherent it is — it doesn’t help that she has no fucking idea what the hell is going on between her and Frank.

“And now David is going to tell Sarah, and Sarah will tell Dinah who will tell Bill and someone will tell Trish and she tells Jessica everything and pretty soon everyone is going to know more about my relationship with Frank than _I_ fucking do!”

“Okay, honey, you need to calm down. This is not the end of the world.”

Karen sits on the couch and puts her head between her knees again. She hears Claire moving around and the sound of liquid being poured in a glass and then Claire is handing her a double shot of whiskey.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Karen says, sitting up. Claire just gives her a look. “Okay, fair.” She takes the glass and downs half of it in one go. It burns her throat, grounding her a bit, and she takes a few deep breaths. When she finally feels like she has some semblance of control again for the first time that morning, she looks at Claire.

“I think it might be time for you to make that decision we talked about the other night,” Claire says, sitting in the armchair across from Karen.

Karen blows out a sigh and tries to think about this rationally.

“Okay,” she nods. Takes another sip of her whiskey. “Okay. You're right. I mean, this wasn't sustainable, right? This was going to happen eventually.”

“Today seems to be pretty convincing evidence that that's true,” Claire says.

“Right. Yeah. Fuck, this is a mess.”

“I don't think it is. You just have to be brave enough to tell Frank you love him.”

Karen's mouth falls open and Claire gives her her signature _cut the bullshit_ look.

“Oh, don't look at me like that. We both know it's true, and so does literally everyone else we know, by the way. You two are totally obvious.”

Karen puts her head back between her knees, groaning dramatically. A small, rational part of her brain knows that she's being ridiculous, but she can't seem to stop. She sits up again and downs the rest of her drink.

“Okay… how do I do this?”

Claire rolls her eyes, but she smiles. “You call him up, and you apologize for peacing out on him this morning and ask if you can see him tonight.”

“He has a game tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then. Whatever. Just don't put it off, okay?”

Karen slowly nods, thinking it through. Doesn’t really register when Claire says goodbye and heads out, leaving Karen on her couch, staring into space.

She’s being stupid, right? She’s known Frank for six months now, and she’s pretty sure she’s loved him since the day he sat still for two hours and let her draw his portrait and start her Frank Castle expression collection.

Someone knocks on her door, and she absently gets up to open it. Claire must have forgotten something.

“Hey, Claire, did you—” she cuts off, because it’s not Claire.

It’s Frank.

Frank Castle is standing on her doorstep, looking more nervous than she’s ever seen him, a bouquet of white roses dangling from one hand.

“Frank,” she says, voice faint.

“Hey, Karen,” he says, that rough voice of his pitched low. “Can I… uh, can I come in?” He asks, when she just stands there staring at him.

“Oh, right, of course,” she steps aside, gestures for him to come in. He eases past her, respectful of her personal space in a way neither of them has been for months now, and she starts to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She shuts the door, throws the bolt automatically. “You want some coffee?” She offers, moving past him into the kitchen. He shakes his head, and she tries not to think of it as another bad sign.

“I, uh, I wanted to talk,” he says, hesitant and careful. Hands her the roses. “These are for you.”

“Thanks,” she takes them, uses them as an excuse not to stare at him while she gets a vase out.

“Look, Karen, uh, about this morning…” he begins, and she freezes with her back to him, her shoulders instinctively hunching protectively.

“I swear to god, Frank,” she cuts him off, her voice low. “If you’re about to try and let me down easy you can just fuck right off, I don’t want to hear it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then footsteps, and she closes her eyes because she doesn’t want to turn around and find him walking away. And then his hands are on her shoulders, and he’s turning her gently around to face him. She braces herself to meet his eyes, and the tenderness she sees there almost undoes her. That flickering dark gaze of his touches her lips, her hair, her shoulders, finally settles softly on her eyes.

“Karen,” he says, eyes dropping back to her lips, and she’s convinced for a breathless moment that he’s going to kiss her, _finally_. He leans in and her heart lurches in her chest, but he drops his forehead to hers and for a long moment they breathe the same air, and it’s somehow more intimate than if he had kissed her.

“Karen,” he says again. “I gotta tell you something. I should’ve told you ages ago.” She nods against him, their noses brushing.

“You can tell me anything,” she whispers, and he pulls away to search her face again.

He looks so long that she doesn’t think he’s ever going to spit it out, and then—

“I love you,” he says, gaze dark and soft and kind of terrified.

“Oh, thank god,” she gasps, startling a laugh out of him.

“That worried about it, huh?”

“You have no _idea_ , I've been stressing about it for months,” she says.

“Why didn't you say something?” He asks, sliding a hand into her hair, thumb brushing the sensitive shell of her ear, eyes trailing across her brow and down to her lips.

“Well, why didn't you?” She counters. He makes his _you've got me there_ face. “Exactly.”

“I didn't think… I mean, I was afraid you wouldn't… and I didn't want to lose you,” he says, leaning in again, voice getting lower with every word. “That would have been worse than almost anything else.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice barely above a whisper. Nudges his nose with her own. “God, we’re idiots.”

He hums agreement, and then his lips are brushing hers. They're softer than she expected, and a little hesitant, so she slips her hands around his waist and pulls him closer, pressing her lips to his. They both make identical sounds of relief, and then they’re kissing in earnest. Karen parts her lips in invitation, and Frank gently bites her lower lip, his lips curving in a smile at the sound she makes. His tongue strokes into her mouth, and she can taste coffee on his tongue.

She slides her hands up over his stomach, feeling his muscles clench, and wraps one hand around his neck, fingers tangling lightly in his hair. He moves a hand to her back, pressing her closer, and she wonders if he can feel her nipples harden at the contact. She pushes his jacket off his shoulders, reaches for the zipper of his hoodie.

“Why are you wearing so many layers,” she demands, and he laughs and trails kisses across her jaw and down her throat, licks a line of hot fire over her clavicle, humming approval at her gasp of pleasure. Her hips jerk into his and he stills for a moment. Looks up at her through his lashes as he hooks his hands under her thighs and lifts her up against him. She wraps her legs around his hips and whispers “bedroom” in his ear, rolling her hips to grind slowly against him.

“You better stop that or we’ll never make it there,” he growls against her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin, but then he puts a hand on her ass and presses her against him and she takes the physical cue instead of the verbal one, rolling her hips again. He groans and stumbles into her bedroom, tossing her onto the bed. She lies there, breathless, and watches him shuck his hoodie and boots and then climb onto the bed, hands skimming over her rib cage as he kneels between her knees.

Frank reaches for the buttons of her shirt, slowly popping the top one. He leans over and presses his lips to the skin that’s exposed before popping the next one. By the time he’s undone the last button, Karen’s hands are in his hair, trying to tug him where she wants him. He grins up at her, twitches the fabric so the shirt falls open, baring her to the cool air of her bedroom. Slides back up her torso to drop a wet kiss on one exposed nipple.

“Fuck,” she says, reaching desperately for the hem of his T-shirt. He lets her pull it over his head before he settles against her, hips cradled between her legs, and sucks her breast into his mouth, tongue flicking maddeningly against her nipple. She moans and circles her hips against his, delighted at the groan the motion elicits from him. She can feel it vibrating through him everywhere they touch, and he bites lightly at her breast, blowing a line of cool air over her sensitive nipple and grinding his erection against her until she gasps.

“Should’ve done this ages ago,” he mumbles against her skin, kissing his way down her stomach and sliding his fingers tantalizingly under the waistband of her leggings. He stands up briefly, shucking his own jeans to reveal a pair of black boxer briefs that showcase an impressive bulge. He reaches for her and strips off her leggings and underwear in one smooth motion before leaning down to press a kiss to her inner thigh.

She goes still at the contact, and he kneels over her, nudging her knees further apart and settling between her legs. She props herself up on her elbows to look down at him, and he looks up, his pupils blown wide and an incredibly sexy smirk on his lips. He laves a circle around her clit, and she falls back against the bed in pleasure, moaning and gasping as he licks and sucks, burying her fingers in his hair. She cries out when he slides a finger into her, stroking her in time with his tongue on her clit.

He slides his free hand up her body to cup her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he slips a second finger inside her, crooking them just so, and she comes apart with his name on her lips.

 

Frank watches Karen come down off her orgasm, committing to memory the sound of his name on her lips when she comes.

When her breathing slows again she reaches for him, pulling him up her body and shoving his boxers off so she can wrap her fingers around his length. He groans in her ear as she strokes him, mumbling her name. He jerks in her hand when she runs her thumb over the tip.

“Not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he growls, reaching down to loosen her grip.

“Condom,” she says. “Bedside table.”

He digs blindly in the drawer until he comes up with the little foil packet, ripping it open with shaking hands. Karen takes it from him, rolls the condom on, holding his gaze as she strokes him. When she's done she reaches for him, but he surprises her by rolling them over until she's straddling him. She still has his shirt on and she moves to shrug out of it but he shakes his head.

“I like the look of it on you,” he says, and she smiles, blue eyes dark with pleasure.

He watches as she leans up on her knees, reaches down between them to guide him to her entrance.

“You're sure?” He asks. It'll kill him if she stops now, but he has to ask. In answer, she meets his gaze and sinks down onto him, eyes fluttering closed. He groans at the heat of her — she's so wet and it's all for him. For a moment, neither of them moves, and then she lifts up and slides back down, setting a rhythm, and he runs his hands over her stomach and up to cup her breasts, flicking his thumbs over her nipples.

She throws her head back, leaning into his touch, and fuck but he's never seen anything so beautiful. Her hair is wild and his shirt is hanging off one of her shoulders. He slips a hand down between them and presses his thumb to her clit, rubbing in slow circles that seem to drive her crazy.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Frank. Frank.” She pulls him up into a sitting position and wraps her legs around his waist, and he kisses her, wet and sloppy, teeth and tongues and hot breaths mingling. He wraps an arm around her waist and fucks up into her, working her clit and reveling in the sounds he's pulling out of her.

“I knew I could make you sound this way,” he growls, biting her earlobe and grinning when she whimpers.

“I've wanted you so bad,” she says, gasping when he sucks on the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. “Just like this.”

“God, Karen,” he groans. “Come for me, again, sweetheart. I've got you.” He holds her gaze as he rubs faster against her clit, thrusting hard up into her at the same time, and she clenches around him, head falling back as she comes with a cry. A few more thrusts have him following her over the edge, collapsing back onto the bed and pulling her over on top of him.

They lie there in a tangle for a long moment, breathing hard, and then Karen rolls over to sprawl next to him on her back.

“Goddamn,” she says. “Remind me again why we haven't done this before now?”

“Too chicken,” he says, grinning over at her. He gets up and heads to the bathroom to clean up, and when he comes back he's almost bowled over by the site of Karen lying in bed, hair a wild golden halo, lips and cheeks flushed from lovemaking. He stops at the foot of the bed and stairs at her until she blushes, smiling, and covers her face with a pillow. He pulls the pillow away and climbs back into bed beside her, pulling her close and propping himself on one elbow to look down at her.

“I love you,” he says. She pulls him down for a kiss, slow and sweet, and when he pulls away to look at her again she finally tells him.

“I love you too, you know.” He drops his forehead to hers, smiling like an idiot.

“I've been hoping,” he says. “But it's nice to hear.”

They spend the next few hours in bed, talking and touching and eventually sleeping, wrapped up in each other. Frank wakes up to the insistent sound of his pregame alarm.

“Do you have to?” Karen grumbles against him, and god does he wish he didn't.

“Yeah, I do,” he says, and she huffs.

“When will you be home?”

“Probably pretty late. Game doesn't start until eight tonight.”

“Okay,” she says, looking up at him sleepily. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine. Don't wait up, okay?”

“Alright, as long as you promise to wake me when you come to bed.”

He groans, because how is he supposed to go to work when she says stuff like that? “Promise,” he says, kissing her again.

He rolls out of bed, searching around for his clothes (how the hell his shirt ended up halfway behind her dresser is beyond him) and pulling them on. Karen watches him for a moment before getting up and pulling on her own clothes.

He gets distracted from lacing up his boots as he watches her buttoning up her shirt — he'll never look at that flannel the same way again.

“You want some coffee before you go?” She asks when he sits down to lace up his boots.

“Mm, please,” he says, and she goes out to start the coffee pot. She pours some in a travel mug for him when it’s ready, and he pushes her up against the wall in her entryway when she walks him to the door. They're both breathing hard when he finally pulls away.

“I really gotta go,” he says.

“Try not to let anyone hit you in the face for once,” Karen says, voice low and husky and he has to count to ten in his head to keep from dragging her back to bed.

“I'll see you tonight,” he says, placing a soft kiss in the corner of her mouth.

 

When he gets home in the early hours of the morning, he finds Karen sound asleep in his bed, as promised.

This has happened before, of course. He's come home to her dozens of times by now — but this time is different. He stands at the foot of the bed and just looks at her for a long moment, at the rise of fall of her breath, the way her hair looks like spilled moonlight, the way she sprawls across way more of the bed than one lanky artist should be able to manage.

The difference is this time, when he slides in next to her and gathers her in his arms, he can do what he's been dying to do for months now and press his lips to her own.

She's warm and makes a soft sound of pleasure, still half asleep, and he wonders how long he has to wait before he can ask her to marry him. Is a week long enough? A month?

He can worry about it in the morning. For now, he gets to wake Karen up.


End file.
